


Gypsy Legacy

by zathara001



Series: Z's Evil Author Day Offerings [3]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, NCIS: Los Angeles
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Crossover, Evil Author Day, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-15
Updated: 2021-02-15
Packaged: 2021-03-17 02:20:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,163
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29464161
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zathara001/pseuds/zathara001
Summary: When Callen picked up Owen Granger's great-niece Hermione at the airport, he never expected that simple errand to reveal a family legacy he must claim if he's to save her life and thwart a terrorist plot against the magical community.
Series: Z's Evil Author Day Offerings [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2164161
Comments: 10
Kudos: 87





	Gypsy Legacy

**Author's Note:**

> As always, all rights are given to the copyright owners of NCIS: Los Angeles and Harry Potter.
> 
> Evil Author Day disclaimer: Read at your own risk - especially since I have a contrary muse: the more other people want something written, the more said muse mule-sits (i.e., sits down like a mule that doesn't want to be led anywhere. Good luck getting it to move once it's made up its mind…). That said, I never say never, so any of these might be completed. I just don't know when/if.
> 
> Further to that, if anyone should be inspired to continue any of these, or write your own with a similar concept, or take any other inspiration from them, please do! Just drop a comment so I can go read it.

In the practice range at the headquarters of the NCIS Office of Special Projects, G Callen watched the center ring of the paper target 15 yards downrange disintegrate as he fired one bullet after another into it. The steady _bang bang bang_ of the shots echoed the steady beat of his heart.

_It would be something if I could fire as fast as my heartbeat in a combat situation._

When his magazine was empty, G ejected it and slide-locked his pistol. He'd just reached for the switch that would bring the target - what was left of it - to him when he felt a swoosh of air as the range door opened.

A glance over his shoulder told him that Assistant Director Owen Granger had joined him. The older man stared past G at the target that came to rest at the edge of the stall G had claimed.

"Anyone I know?" Granger asked.

"Probably a lot of people you know," G admitted. "It's been a long week, and it's only Tuesday."

Granger gave a hum of agreement. "Where's your team?"

"I let them go as soon as they got their reports done." G started to reload the magazine. "Something up?"

"Nothing official," Granger said. "I was going to ask Blye for a favor, but since she's gone, I guess you're elected."

G slid the last bullet into the magazine and slipped his Glock into the holster at the small of his back. "Never hurts to have the assistant director owe me a favor. What do you need?"

"My great-niece is flying in from London," Granger said. "I was supposed to meet her at the airport before my flight to D.C. to give her my house and car keys. Her flight was delayed, and she won't be landing before I take off."

"I can meet her," G said. "What's her name?"

"Hermione Granger."

G nodded. "You might send her a picture of me so she doesn't freak when she sees me holding a sign with her name on it."

Granger scowled at him, but clearly decided G had a point because he took out his phone and snapped a picture. "I'm deleting this picture as soon as I land."

G chuckled. "Wouldn't expect anything else. When do we leave?"

"Now."

* = *

Hermione Granger thought she handled her first international aeroplane trip very well - or, she amended silently, she would have done if the bloody flight hadn't been delayed twice.

The first delay she understood - after changing planes in New York, Hermione arrived at the new gate to find the flight to Los Angeles delayed due to mechanical problems. While the explanation didn't exactly reassure her, she knew that anything could go wrong, and frequently did. Her mother had once called it "Murphy's Law," and Hermione had spent half a day researching who Murphy was.

Almost two hours later, she boarded the flight from New York to Los Angeles expecting the rest of the trip to be uneventful. It was - for the first twenty minutes. Then the cabin crew announced that during the delay, nobody had bothered to replenish the potable water, so they were making an unscheduled stop in Cleveland.

Finally, though, they were on the way, and Hermione could only hope the airlines were better at landing the planes than they were at stocking them.

Still, she'd only had to take one draught of peace for the entire trip, which meant Harry Potter owed her a galleon - he'd bet her she'd need at least two. One was enough, however, to ensure that she slept most of the way from Cleveland to Los Angeles, only waking up as the final approach announcement was made.

The plane landed smoothly, and while it taxied to the gate, Hermione closed her eyes and breathed deeply. It might be her first trip to the United States, but that didn't mean she was going to act like a bloody teenager about it.

_No gawking_ , she told herself sternly. _No seeing only the tourist attractions and thinking you've seen the city. And most especially no spending all your time - and money - in Starfall Bookshop._

Finally, the plane was parked at the gate and she was heading down the tunnel - Uncle Owen had called it an elephant trunk, and Hermione supposed it was a reasonable analogy - into the airport proper.

She'd cleared Customs in New York before changing planes - and the less said about _that_ , the better - so she could go straight to the baggage claim area, where Uncle Owen had said he'd meet her.

Which meant she was taken completely by surprise when she saw a man at the gate - decidedly _not_ her Uncle Owen, not with those blue eyes - holding a tablet computer with her name displayed on its screen.

_Could be a trap_ , a part of her mind whispered to her. Without thinking, Hermione opened her magical senses and stretched them toward the stranger waiting for her - and almost gasped aloud at the aura surrounding him.

_Very magical. But - odd. Wild, maybe? Untrained? Dangerous, in a sexy kind of way._

Hermione shook that thought off, focused on the man's intent. Nothing set off her instincts there, either - he seemed simply to be waiting, presumably for her. If she had to name the emotion she read, she'd have to label it _curious._

_Curious_ she could handle. With a quick adjustment to her grip on her pull-along bag, she took the few steps that would bring her to the blue-eyed stranger.

"I'm Hermione Granger," she said.

"Agent Callen, NCIS." With a flick of his wrist, he closed the tablet computer and then reached into his pocket, withdrawing an identification card and badge that he showed her.

Hermione frowned. "I'm supposed to meet my great-uncle - Owen Granger."

The blue-eyed man - Agent Callen - gave an exasperated huff. "He forget to send the text?"

"Text?" Hermione repeated, feeling her forehead crinkle.

"I told him to send you a picture of me, so you'd know who I am."

"Oh!" Hermione laughed a little. "Sorry - I turned my mobile off when I boarded in New York and haven't turned it on yet. Give me a minute."

"Sure. May I?" Callen gestured toward her pull-along, and she offered him the handle. With an easy movement, he negotiated it to a spot along one wall.

Minutes later, she'd turned on her phone and checked for any messages that had arrived while she was in transit. There were two - _Happy holiday_ from Harry, and one from her uncle. Quickly, she responded to Harry with a _Safely in Los Angeles. Will text more later._

Then she opened the message from Uncle Owen and found it to be, in fact, a photo of Agent Callen. With the photo came a simple message. _Can't meet you because of delay. Agent Callen will. He's one of the good guys._

Hermione smiled at the message - given that Uncle Owen knew her as an assistant department head in the Home Office of Her Majesty's government, his assessment of Callen as _one of the good guys_ carried a fair amount of weight, and she relaxed a little.

After sending a quick response - _On the ground and with Callen_ \- she slipped the phone into her purse. Not nearly as convenient as her beaded handbag, but she couldn't risk carrying a magical bag in the Muggle world.

"Pleasure to meet you, Agent Callen." She offered her hand.

"And you, Ms. Granger," he replied, giving her hand a firm shake. "But please - just Callen."

"Hermione." She tilted her head to one side, studying him for a moment. "Is it common for Americans to address each other by their surnames?"

"Only in certain circumstances. This way." Without asking, he caught the handle of her pull-along and started down the long corridor of Los Angeles International Airport.

"What circumstances?" Hermione asked, easily keeping stride with him despite the fact that he was a good three inches taller than she even when she wore two-inch heels.

"Military, mostly," Callen answered. "Other law enforcement and first responders."

"And you work with Uncle Owen," Hermione said. "But I'm not U.S. law enforcement. Does that -"

She broke off, unsure how to phrase the question without sounding rude.

"You can call me G, if you want. Baggage Claim is this way."

"Oh, I don't have any more luggage," she said, and was rewarded by the quirk of his eyebrow.

"You packed for a week in Los Angeles in a carry-on bag?" He grinned. "Color me impressed."

Hermione hoped her face didn't turn as red as she feared it had. "I am on holiday, you know - I've no need to dress up."

And if she did, she had an Undetectable Extension Charm on her carry-on. With it, she'd brought half her wardrobe with her.

"G for -?" she prompted when they exited the terminal toward the parking garage.

"If I knew, I'd tell you."

There was a story behind that, and Hermione knew she shouldn't pry. Then again, she hadn't gotten to be where she was by doing what she _should_ do.

She tried to fill the question with simple, honest curiosity that he might respond to. "Why don't you know?"

"I'm an orphan," he said simply. "I was in and out of foster homes - thirty-seven of them - from when I was five years old. I remember my mother being killed in front of me, but I don't remember my name."

Hermione blinked. Just what was she supposed to say to that? She ran several options through her mind before she settled on, "I'm sorry."

"I'm used to it. I'd like to know, but I've accepted that maybe I never will."

It was just a statement of fact, but there was so much pain and heartbreak behind it that Hermione couldn't respond, not even when Callen led her to a four-door sedan and used a remote-control unit to open the boot.

"Where are we going?" she asked as she settled into the passenger seat - on the right side of the vehicle, not the left.

"He asked me to drop you at his house," Callen answered. "He said you're on vacation - holiday, I mean?"

"First one since I took the job," she replied.

"What job?" Callen asked.

"Deputy department head at the Home Office."

He seemed impressed but not awed and offered easy conversation about their strangest cases. Her stories, of course, were heavily edited to avoid any reference to their magical nature. Even so, Callen was easy to talk to. Unlike so many men, he didn't seem to be talking with her as a prelude to sex. He seemed genuinely interested in her stories and the few bits of her background that she offered.

Then they were on the freeways of Los Angeles, and Hermione thought she'd never been more terrified in her life than she was right now at the sheer density of automobiles surrounding her.

Callen was unfazed, though he glanced at her with a mischievous grin. "Welcome to L.A. traffic. Rule of thumb, allow twice the time you think you'll need to get wherever you're going."

Hermione eyed the cars surrounding them dubiously. "It's midafternoon."

"Probably the only time you don't have traffic is between two and three in the morning."

Hermione shifted her gaze from the barely-moving cars to the man in the driver's seat. "So, like London, only with wider streets."

Callen caught her eye and grinned. "That about sums it up."

* = *

Her uncle's house sat on a quiet street where, unlike most of what she'd seen so far in Los Angeles, the houses weren't piled one on top of another. Uncle Owen had a neatly landscaped front yard with a handful of rose bushes that were just budding, but nothing that reminded her even remotely of England.

_And why should it? It's six thousand miles away._

Callen pulled her bag from the boot and pulled it up to the front door of the house. He touched a button on a small device on the keyring he carried, then unlocked the door and opened it for her.

Hermione stepped into the house, surprised when he paused just inside the door.

"Take a look around," he said. "See if there's anything you don't immediately know how to use."

She couldn't help raising an eyebrow at him. "Is the U.S. so different from the rest of the world?"

He chuckled. "Aside from different electrical plugs and outlets? Not really - but there are little things that may not make sense on first glance. At least there are when I go overseas."

Maybe Callen was being a little too considerate, but Hermione had to admit he had a point - especially since it was her first trip to the U.S. - so she took a moment to examine the kitchen and bathroom before returning to the lounge.

"I think I can manage," she told Callen, who had lingered at the door.

He held out the keys and then, after she took them, a business card. "Granger said he has meetings tomorrow and Thursday, but will be back Friday. In the meantime, if you need anything, here's my cell number."

Hermione took the card he offered, saw the logo for NCIS above his name and office contact information. He'd handwritten a different number on the back of the card.

"Thank you," Hermione said.

"Lock the door." With a nod, he turned and started for a car parked on the street in front of the house.

Hermione shut the door and, following Callen's advice, locked it. Her trip may not have started the way she'd expected, but she'd still make the most of it - beginning with a bookstore crawl tomorrow morning.

* = * CHAPTER 2 * = *

G strolled into the OSP Wednesday morning hoping that the rest of the week would go better than the first couple of days had.

To be fair, running the errand for AD Granger had been pleasant enough - Hermione Granger was a smart, funny woman, and G wasn't surprised that she hadn't had to call him to ask how anything in the house worked.

He'd never admit aloud he was disappointed that she hadn't. He would welcome an excuse to spend more time with the woman who seemed like an odd combination of Hetty Lange and Nell Jones, with a hint of Kensi Blye in the mix for good measure.

G chuckled at the mental image that description gave him and dropped his bag at the desk he shared with Kensi before crossing to the coffee station and brewing a cup of tea. With any luck, today would be calm enough that he wouldn't have to resort to the extra caffeine kick coffee offered later.

The rest of his team - Sam Hanna, Kensi Blye, and Marty Deeks - straggled in and took their places. Having yesterday afternoon off had done wonders for them. They were once again the confident, assured agents he was used to, instead of exhausted, barely-functional people.

Which meant that just maybe they'd get their reports finished today, if no new case came up. Despite lingering fatigue, G found himself hoping for a case that would let him put off the paperwork a little while longer.

G was just considering lunch - a late lunch, but at least his preliminary report was finished - when his office phone rang. The unexpected sound drew curious glances from all three of his teammates. He reached to answer it, wondering if he'd gotten his wish. "Callen."

"Agent Callen," the male voice that came through the receiver was unfamiliar but calm and measured and continued without waiting for G to respond. "This is Officer Schafer, LAPD. I'm calling because there's been an accident."

"What kind of accident?" G shifted so he could scan the bullpen, flicked a glance toward Hetty's office. Everyone appeared to be where they were supposed to be.

"A car accident," Schafer replied. "Involving a British woman who happens to be carrying your card."

"Her name's Hermione Granger," G said, his gut clenching. "She's our assistant director's niece. Is she all right?"

"I should speak with your assistant director about this," Schafer said.

"He's in D.C. on business," G said. "He asked me to meet her at the airport, so I did. I gave her my card in case she needed anything or had any questions about how we do things on this side of the Pond. Is she all right?"

"The paramedics are checking her out now, but her car's a mess." There was a pause. "The accident investigators aren't done yet, but based on what a couple of witnesses have said, it may not have been an accidental accident, if you know what I mean."

G's gut clenched even tighter. "Where?"

G repeated the address, told Schafer he'd be there as soon as possible, and hung up. Before the receiver hit the cradle, he looked across the bullpen. "Deeks - with me."

"Deeks?" Sam frowned a question at him.

"I need the liaison to liaise."

* = *

Hermione looked up from where she sat on the rear fender of the ambulance when she heard Callen's voice. He'd paused to speak with one of the investigating officers - Schafer, she remembered - and a tall, mop-headed blond man stood beside him.

After a moment, Callen came toward her. The blond man lingered to speak to the police officers.

Callen gave her a wry grin. "You know we drive on the right side of the road over here."

"Yes, and it's bloody irritating," Hermione shot back, amused in spite of the situation. "But I was in the correct lane, and I didn't break any traffic laws that I know about."

"The officer said," Callen said, and his expression sobered. "Are you okay?"

"Banged up a bit," she answered. "More than a bit angry."

"Not how you expected your vacation to go?"

Hermione blew out a breath. "Those tossers nicked my books."

Callen appeared to take her slang in stride, merely asking, "What kind of books?"

"Rare antique ones," Hermione said. Fortunately, they hadn't gotten the one they probably wanted most. It was safely on its way back to England, thanks to the goblins at the Los Angeles branch of Gringotts.

"Odd thing to steal," Callen observed. "Unless any of them were worth a lot?"

Hermione smiled. "Define _a lot_." Then she shrugged, grimacing at the pain in her shoulder. The seatbelt in Uncle Owen's car had almost dislocated it. She'd have to find a Healer or a mediwitch and get a healing potion. Until then, she'd have to put up with whatever the Muggle paramedics did. Still, she continued, "A couple of hundred pounds for the lot of them, depending on the exchange rate today."

And one incredibly rare, incredibly expensive, magical book that hadn't been in the car.

"Do you think they were looking for one in particular?"

_Absolutely._ "I don't see how they could be. I had a list of bookstores to visit, and just bought what caught my interest."

"Give a list of the titles to Deeks." Callen jerked his head toward the blond man who'd approached while they spoke. "LAPD will be on the lookout for them."

"Marty Deeks," the blond introduced himself, and Hermione had to force herself not to stare at his hair. It was even more of a disaster than Harry's, and she hadn't known that was possible until now.

Silently promising herself to somehow get a picture of the blond - Deeks - to show Harry later, she said simply, "Hermione Granger."

Anything else she might have said got delayed as the paramedic straightened.

"Nothing's broken," the woman - who reminded Hermione of a thinner Molly Weasley - said, "but you're going to be sore as the dickens for a few days. If over-the-counter painkillers don't help, see a doctor for some muscle relaxants."

"Thank you," Hermione said, remembering to use the full version for once. More than one American had looked at her oddly when she'd simply said _ta._ She stood gingerly, stretching muscles abused in the crash, then her gaze fell on the cars that were being towed away, and she groaned.

"Hurting?" Callen asked.

"No," she said. "But Uncle Owen's car…"

"Wait," Deeks said, grinning widely. "Uncle Owen?"

"Yes," Hermione said slowly. "Why?"

"Do you have an Aunt Beru, too?"

Hermione frowned, then the reference surfaced from her memory, and she shook her head. "Sorry, no."

"Come on," Callen said as Deeks' expression fell. "We'll give you a ride home."

"Hey, Callen - if it's okay, I'm going to grab a late lunch with Kensi," Deeks said.

Callen took that in stride. "Need me to drop you anywhere?"

"Nah, she's on her way. Fifteen minutes out."

Callen glanced at his watch. "Early dinner's more accurate. Take the rest of the day."

"Two days in a row we leave early?" Deeks looked surprised. "You feeling okay?"

"I could always call a two a.m. night maneuver exercise," Callen said mildly.

"Taking the day," Deeks said, backing away. "The rest of the day, all day. See you tomorrow!"

Hermione laughed, and winced a little when her ribs protested.

"Hey." Callen was by her side in an instant. "Take it easy. Let's get you home and get some painkillers in you, and maybe some ice for the bruising."

It was easier to go along with him, and Hermione allowed him to lead her to the car he'd brought and help her into it. She'd get home - to Uncle Owen's house - and then find a mediwitch.

* = *

She must have dozed off, because the next thing she knew, the car had come to a stop and Callen was shutting off the engine. A glance around told her that yes, they were at Uncle Owen's house.

Minutes later, Callen took her keys from her and offered her an arm to lean on as they approached the front door.

"I'm not an invalid," she said.

"But you're hurting - or you will be soon," he countered. "So I'm going to get you inside and make sure you take something for the pain."

It was probably best to let him help, then cast a few pain-relief charms and figure out how to contact an American mediwitch, so Hermione let Callen open the door for her and help her inside.

"Tea?" he asked before they got to the hallway that led to the bedrooms, and she turned in surprise, wincing a little at the pain in her ribs when she did.

"I thought Americans drink coffee more than tea."

"A lot of us do," Callen agreed. "Some of us drink both. My boss has made tea an art form."

"Tea would be lovely, ta," Hermione said and turned for the bedrooms.

Once she was in the room she'd claimed as hers, she slipped her feet out of her shoes and began to undress.

Her back twinged as she reached behind her to unbutton the blouse she wore, and Hermione bit back a curse. Reaching up to get to the buttons was right out - at least until she cast an _episkey_ spell and found a mediwitch who could provide a healing potion…

…but her wand was in her bag, out in the lounge where she'd left Callen.

"Bugger." Hermione blew out a breath and started back for the lounge.

Callen was exploring Uncle Owen's bookshelves and looked up when Hermione cleared her throat.

"Um - if it's not too much to ask," she said, "a little help, please?"

She turned her back to him and looked over her shoulder.

"Sure." He crossed the few feet between them and with deft, gentle fingers unfastened each button. Then his fingers stilled, resting just between her shoulder blades.

"Callen?" she asked.

"You'll probably have trouble with this, too." Before he finished speaking, he'd unfastened her bra.

Hermione was glad she faced away from him - at least he wouldn't see her blush. _At least he was polite about it._

"Thank you," she said, and almost fled back down the hall.

She closed her bedroom door behind her and stared at her reflection in the mirror over the dresser. "Calm down, Hermione," she told her reflection firmly. "He's just being thorough."

And she needed to be, also, if only so she could get him out of the house and take care of her injuries.

As quickly as her sore muscles would allow, Hermione tugged off her blouse and bra, slid off the trousers she wore, and reached for the nightgown she'd brought with her. It was of soft cotton, demure enough, but still she pulled on a bathrobe before she went back to the lounge to herd Callen away so she could treat herself.

Callen was speaking into a cell phone when she returned.

"She'll be fine," he was saying. "A little banged up, that's all. … Pretty sure you should tell her that yourself. Hold on."

He extended the phone toward her, and she frowned at him as she took it. Sparing a moment to be thankful for the charmwork that allowed her to interact with electronics without short-circuiting them, she took a breath and spoke into the phone.

"Uncle Owen."

"Are you all right?" her uncle asked, concern softening his normally gruff tone.

"I will be," she said. "The car came from nowhere, and they stole the books I'd bought."

"Those bastards." Now that she'd reassured him, Uncle Owen sounded slightly amused. "I know you're not going to an American hospital, so I asked Callen to stay the night. Just in case."

She huffed. "I'm fine."

"I'm sure," he replied. "But I'd feel better if he stayed with you. He's good at not getting in the way."

Hermione debated, briefly, whether she should argue with Uncle Owen, and decided against it. Even if Callen stayed the night, she could treat her injuries in private tomorrow. It would be an uncomfortable night, but she'd had more than her share of truly horrible nights during the war. She could handle uncomfortable.

"All right," she said after a moment. "But it's an awful lot of bother for a few bumps and bruises."

"Humor me," he said, and she sighed.

"I'm glad you care, Uncle Owen, honestly," she said. "I'm just not used to being … babied."

Her uncle snorted. "This isn't babying. Do what Callen tells you, and I'll see you Friday evening."

He ended the call without saying goodbye - _rude, Uncle_ \- and she offered the phone back to Callen.

"Do you cook?" she asked.

"I dial a mean take-out," he answered so seriously that Hermione laughed, and then winced as pain shot through her ribs.

He was at her side in a heartbeat. "Easy, there. Come on, have a seat. I'll get ice and order some food. Any preferences?"

If she weren't hurting, she might have an idea. But she was, so she said simply, "Your favorite is fine."

* = *

Even on the best of nights, G didn't sleep much - or at least, not much at a time. It had been a necessary survival skill while he was in the foster care system, and as an adult, it had become a habit. Another long-learned habit was that when he woke, he went from sleep to complete wakefulness in a heartbeat.

Tonight, though, he hadn't just awakened. Something, some noise, some change in the house around him - Granger's house, he reminded himself, not his - registering in his sleeping mind had launched him to full alertness.

He lay still on the floor of Granger's master bedroom, where he'd ended up the second time he'd woken in the night, and stretched out his senses as much as he could.

The briefest flash of light from the direction of Hermione's room had him on his feet, Glock in hand, almost before the light faded. Swiftly and silently, he crossed to the doorway and peeked around the doorjamb.

The door to Hermione's room was open, and that was disturbing in its own right, because it had been closed the last time G woke and he'd paced the house to confirm it was secure.

More disturbing was the shadow G could barely make out against the open door - a man's shadow, he thought, but before he could do more than form that thought, Hermione's voice filled the hall.

_"Confringo."_

Even as he mentally translated the Latin - _destroy_ \- the man who'd cast the shadow flew backward out of the room and into the corridor wall opposite it.

If that wasn't a cue, G didn't know what was.

Before the man could regain his footing, G stepped into the doorway, Glock aimed at the man, and said, "Federal agent! Drop your weapon! Hands where I can see them!"

The man turned toward him - _why don't they ever listen?_ \- and raised his hand.

G fired twice in rapid succession, and the man fell to the floor. Cautiously but quickly, G stepped into the hallway.

"Hermione?" he called.

"I'm here." She stepped into view. "I'm all right."

G crossed to the fallen man and kicked his weapon - _a stick? really?_ \- away before kneeling to feel for a pulse. He felt one beat, a second … then nothing.

He looked up at Hermione to confirm that she was, in fact, all right, only to frown when he saw that she carried a stick similar to the one he'd kicked away from the intruder.

"What -" G began, but then there were people around them - people who hadn't come through a door. People who'd simply _appeared_.

G blinked and blinked again, adding a slight shake of his head the second time, just for completeness. The people were still there, only now they were in motion, a half-dozen men and women in a uniform he didn't recognize securing the dead man and his stick before speaking quietly with Hermione. One man had drawn a stick of his own and waved it over Hermione.

"He must've got the drop on you," the man said. "You're banged up pretty badly."

"No," Hermione said. "I was in a car accident earlier and haven't seen anyone for it yet."

The man muttered something under his breath, and G blinked as a wash of pale lavender light swept over Hermione's body. She seemed to take the whole thing in stride.

Then a woman who appeared to be in her fifties confronted him. "Who are you and what did you see?"

Reflexively, G reached for his ID. "Special Agent Callen, NCIS. And you are?"

"Angela Lang, Federal Bureau of Covert Vigilance and No-Maj Obliviation. What did you see?"

"Never heard of it," G said.

She smiled, and the lines on her face fell into place as though they were meant to be there. "Quite all right, I've never heard of NCIS, either. What did you see?"

Distrust churned G's gut, and for a moment he considered not answering her questions, considered insisting on having an attorney present - or maybe another Lange he knew. Over Lang's shoulder, though, he saw Hermione speaking to one of Lang's colleagues. If she were speaking to them, maybe he should, too?

G debated a moment longer, then met Angela Lang's gaze evenly. "I woke up and something caught my eye - a flash of light, a reflection off something. I drew my weapon and prepared to clear the house."

"Did you have reason to believe there was an intruder?" Lang asked.

G didn't try to hide the twitch of his lips. "I had no reason to think there wasn't one. But if it were just Ms. Granger, then there'd be no harm done by clearing the house."

"What happened next?"

"I saw a shadow, heard Ms. Granger yell -" no need to tell Lang just _what_ Hermione had yelled, at least not until he'd had a chance to speak with her about it "- and a man stumbled back out of Ms. Granger's bedroom. He had something in his hand, which I believed to be a weapon."

"What did you do?"

"I identified myself as a federal agent, and instructed him to drop his weapon," G answered, his tone even. "Instead, he turned to face me, the weapon pointed at me. I fired twice, aiming for center mass. He fell, and by the time I confirmed Ms. Granger's safety and got to him, he had bled out."

"How do you know Ms. Granger?" Lang asked.

"I don't," G answered immediately. "Not really. Her uncle - great-uncle, actually - is assistant director at NCIS, and because he couldn't meet her at the airport yesterday, he asked me to. Then earlier today, she was involved in a car accident, and AD Granger asked me to stay the night, to make sure she was okay. He'll be back in L.A. Friday."

"I see." Lang looked thoughtful for a moment, and G steeled himself for a barrage of personal questions. They were always asked, after all.

She surprised him when she asked only, "Do you know the man who attacked Ms. Granger?"

"No."

"Thank you for your time, Agent Callen."

Before he could respond, Lang whipped out another stick - _what is it with these people and sticks?!_ \- and pointed it at him.

_"Obliviate,"_ she said.

* = *

_"Obliviate."_

Hermione flinched when she heard the spell and couldn't help watching from the corner of her eye as Agent Lang led Callen back into the master bedroom.

"You know it had to be done," the FBCVNO agent questioning her said, but his tone was gentler than she'd expected.

"I know," Hermione said. "But he's one of the good guys, and I never like _obliviating_ the good guys."

The agent - a middle-aged man with hair graying at the temples - nodded. "I understand. Do you have any idea why that man attacked you?"

"I believe he was after a book I bought earlier today."

"A book," the man repeated. "What kind of book?"

"A copy of the _Hermetica_ ," Hermione said.

The man looked dubious. "There are literally thousands of those."

"Only one dates to the reign of Elizabeth I and has John Dee's handwritten notes in it."

Now he looked interested. "Do you have it?"

"Of course not," Hermione said. "I apparated straight from the book dealer to Gringotts and had the goblins deliver it where it needed to go."

It was true as far as it went, and the FBCVNO agent had no need to know just where she'd sent the book - despite the curiosity shining from his eyes.

She continued before he could say anything. "I believe the same man was responsible for my car accident earlier, when he nicked _all_ of the books I bought today."

"Except that one."

"Except that one," Hermione agreed. "It would be so easy if he were still alive - I could tell him the goblins have it, and there wouldn't be any more bother."

The man blinked. "You know it wouldn't be that easy."

"A girl can dream, can't she?"

He chuckled. "I suppose."

He glanced around. Hermione followed suit and saw that the house was empty now, except for the two of them.

"Set wards before you go back to sleep," he told her. "Just dismantle them before you go back home."

Hermione nodded, and the man apparated away. A more thorough examination of the house, courtesy of a _lumos_ charm, told her the FBCVNO had been as thorough as the DMLE would have been in a similar situation. No traces of the evening's events remained.

She paused at the door to the master bedroom, surprised to see that while the bed appeared unmade, Callen himself lay sleeping on the floor by the door.

"Even for an American, you're very odd," she told him in a low voice. The _obliviate_ spell would make certain he remembered nothing of the night's events, instead believing that he slept through the night as he normally would.

She knelt beside him and brushed a kiss to his forehead. "Thank you for saving my life."

Then she left him where he lay and returned to her own room and her own bed.

* CHAPTER 3 *

By the time Hermione emerged from the bathroom after her shower the next morning, she smelled bacon and coffee, so she turned toward the kitchen.

Callen, already dressed, stood at the kitchen counter, whisking a bowl of eggs and milk.

"Morning," he said. "You seem to be moving better. Sleep okay?"

"Well enough," she answered and fought a wince at the lies - of omission and commission - that she would have to tell him. "You?"

"As well as I ever sleep. Hope you're okay with scrambled eggs."

"Sounds lovely," Hermione said, and went to pour herself a cup of coffee.

For once, she had no idea what to say, so she sat quietly watching as Callen finished making their breakfast. Despite her regret over what had been done to him, the silence was oddly comfortable.

It remained comfortable until they were done eating and Callen rested his forearms on the table. "So - you sleep all right last night?"

"Last night? Why wouldn't I?"

"Well," Callen began, "a man broke into the house, apparently assaulted you in your bedroom, got himself killed for his trouble, and then the cops showed up."

Hermione hadn't realized she'd tensed until she relaxed at his last words. Apparently, instead of making him believe he'd slept through the night undisturbed, the FBCVNO agent had just altered the details of Callen's memories. It was a neat bit of work, and Hermione resolved to work to improve her own ability in that area.

Callen, though, still waited on an answer, and she shrugged. "I just went back to sleep after. My mum always said I could sleep through the end of the world."

And, in fact, she had - at least when she was younger; fighting a battle in her teens had taught her the value of sleeping lightly.

"Handy skill," Callen observed. Then, "Will you be okay by yourself today?"

"Of course," she said. "I am a grown woman. I can take care of myself."

"Not what I meant," Callen said. "I meant, twice yesterday someone attacked you, presumably the same person, for something they thought you might have. They might try again."

"I could wish them luck trying today and not regret it," Hermione said. Callen just raised one eyebrow in inquiry. "This is a working holiday. I have a series of meetings today at the British Consulate. I'll be safe enough."

Callen nodded, his expression thoughtful. "Will you let me drop you off and pick you up?"

It was on the tip of her tongue to refuse - the brightest witch of the age didn't need to be babied, after all - but an escort was a reasonable precaution for a normal person, so she nodded.

"Yes, thank you. But I'll buy dinner after to say thanks."

Callen grinned, making him seem years younger than he was. "I hope you aren't expecting me to refuse."

Hermione laughed. "I'd be offended if you did."

* = *

G had to give Hermione Granger credit - she hadn't reacted at all to his not-too-subtle inquiry about the night before. If all he'd had to go on was her reaction, he'd think he dreamed it. But he'd checked his weapon this morning, and he was one bullet down, and he could see traces of powder clinging to the inside of the barrel when he examined it.

So last night's events had happened, and now he had to decide how to deal with them. And Hermione Granger. Without pissing Owen Granger off in the process.

Using the same skills that made him a legendary undercover operator, he kept up light conversation with Hermione while he drove her to the British Consulate, all the while pondering his next move.

By the time they arrived at the Consulate, G had formulated a plan. He watched until Hermione disappeared into the building, nodded to the guards on duty outside who were giving him assessing looks, and then turned his car toward NCIS.

He took advantage of the bustle of people arriving and getting coffee to start the day to find Nell Jones.

"Can I have a moment, Nell?"

"You can have until I finish this cup of coffee," she said with a grin. "No food or drink in ops, so I drink it before I go in. It's a good rule, actually, makes sure people take breaks."

"Hetty is good at what she does," G agreed with a nod to the woman herself, who happened to be crossing toward her desk at the moment.

Hetty returned the nod but didn't approach them. Still, G kept his voice toward the low end of normal - no sense calling attention to what he was doing by looking like he didn't want to get caught.

"I need a favor," he said. "A big, huge favor, and I'll owe you something nice for your birthday _and_ Christmas."

"It must be big if you're jumping in with the bribes immediately."

"Not bribes," G said with exaggerated horror. "Just generous expressions of my undying gratitude."

Nell laughed at that, which was good - not just because he liked her laugh but also because it made their conversation appear normal to anyone passing by.

"Okay. What's this big, huge favor?"

"Keep it on the lowest of the down low," G said, "and check out Hermione Granger."

"Granger's niece?"

"Yes. She's been the victim of two attacks since she got here. She says they were attempts to steal a book she bought."

"You don't believe that?" Nell asked.

"I think it's a lot of trouble for a book," G countered - and that was before you added in the strange events of last night. "I just want to be sure she's not involved in anything that might come back on her uncle."

"Are you sure you and Hetty aren't related?" Nell asked. "Because that's exactly what she said when she asked me to look into Miss Granger."

G chuckled. "Not related, but we do think alike sometimes. What did you find?"

"Not much." Nell took another sip of her coffee. "Her parents are both dentists in private practice. She's an only child and _very_ smart - so smart that at eleven, she was selected for private schooling, but I can't find where. Her primary school transcript just says she transferred out. Then she shows up again at twenty-one, in college at Oxford, where she graduated with honors a couple of years later."

"What was her major?" G asked. "Or whatever you call it over there."

"She read philosophy and law, but she's not a solicitor or barrister. She must have studied all the time."

Having spent some time with her, G suspected that was absolutely true. "What else?"

Nell shrugged and moved toward the sink to rinse her cup. "That's about it. She took a position with the Home Office and has risen steadily through the ranks - no big jumps, no appearance of favoritism. A couple of differences of opinion with her superiors, but no formal disciplinary actions."

"Perfectly ordinary career," G mused.

"But not _too_ perfect, if you know what I mean." Nell put her cup in the drainer and turned back to G. "She visits her parents a couple of times a year, doesn't appear to have a boyfriend."

"And that's not _too_ perfect?" G couldn't help grinning at her.

"No, just someone who's dedicated to her career. Kind of like me." Nell grinned back.

"I think you'd like her," G said. "I also think the two of you together might be more than this world is ready for."

Nell laughed. Then, "Did that answer your question?"

"Too soon to tell," G answered honestly. "But thank you."

Nell nodded and turned for the stairs that led to the operations center, but paused to look back at him. "Am I still getting extravagant birthday and Christmas presents?"

"Considering you'd already done the work?" G grinned at her. "Maybe."

Nell laughed and continued toward the stairs, and G poured himself another cup of tea and started for his desk, barely acknowledging the greetings from the rest of his team.

There was something strange about Hermione Granger - and not just her lack of school records. He'd have to ask her tonight.

* = *

Just after six p.m., Hermione left the British Consulate quite pleased with the results of her day. Meetings with her counterpart from MACUSA had gone quite well, though the meetings with her Muggle counterpart had been somewhat strained.

Then again, the man surely couldn't be offended if she refused his offer of dinner, saying she had other plans.

She'd texted Callen as requested, and he was on his way to pick her up, but whether they were having dinner or not hadn't been decided to her satisfaction. He hadn't, after all, explicitly accepted her offer.

Then again, she hadn't gotten where she was in life by waiting for things to happen. Rather, she made things happen. Dinner with Callen would be one of those things.

Mindful of her own safety - and Hermione laughed to herself at the irony; her school years had been anything but _safe_ \- she waited just inside the consulate until she saw a familiar sedan pull up outside.

"It's all right," she told the guards on duty, stopping them before they could approach the car. "He's picking me up."

Then she was settling in to the passenger seat - which should be the driver's seat - and offering Callen a smile in response to his easy grin.

"Looks like you survived," he said and pulled away from the curb. "Anyone try to steal your book in the Consulate?"

"It would be bloody stupid to try," Hermione said.

"Which is not to say that someone wouldn't be stupid enough to try," Callen countered.

"Well, yes," Hermione admitted. "But no, nobody tried today."

"You know I'm curious. I get that it's a rare book, but unless it's, I don't know, the lost Gospel of John the Baptist or something, I can't imagine people trying to steal it."

"John the Baptist wrote a gospel?" Hermione asked, feeling her lips turn down. She'd had a thorough education in religions, both magical and Muggle, and couldn't place a Gospel of John the Baptist.

"Not that I know of," Callen said. "But it was the only thing I could think of that might be worth repeated attempts to steal."

"Oh. Well, no, it was nothing like that. It's an alchemical text." Before Callen could pursue that, she added, "I said I'd buy you dinner to thank you for your kindness since I've been here. I know Uncle Owen never expected my visit to be this much trouble."

Callen laughed. "I haven't been shot at, strapped to a bomb, exposed to a biological weapon, or even punched by the bad guys. You're not much trouble at all."

Hermione's lips twitched. "Well, when you put it that way…" She sobered. "Still. You've done so much for me while I've been here."

Callen studied her for a moment, then nodded. "What's your preference?"

Hermione frowned. "I was going to ask for typical American cuisine, but I'm not entirely certain what that would be."

"A burger and a beer," Callen suggested. "At least in this part of the country. In the South, it'd be fried chicken or barbecue, and in New England, it would be clam chowder."

"So you're saying you don't have typical American cuisine."

Callen shrugged without looking at her as he negotiated the car onto a motorway - no, on this side of the Pond, they were called _highways_. "More that it depends what part of the US you're in. Plus, we have so many immigrants that have blended their traditional foods with American influence that … well. There's a reason they call us the melting pot."

"In that case, just pick something you like," Hermione said. "It'll be an adventure for me."

* = *

In the end, Callen drove to the beach, and Hermione had slipped her shoes off to pad across the sand with him, wondering what on Earth the people at the shack could serve that would be worth the trek.

The answer turned out to be fish tacos and homebrewed beer that were far tastier than she would have expected.

They sat at a picnic table - Callen would've been happy sitting on the sand, but she refused to risk damaging the fine silk of her dress by doing so - and talked about inconsequential things while the sun sank into the ocean.

Then Callen steered the car back onto the highway, and even after a couple of beers Hermione still realized, "This isn't the way to Uncle Owen's house."

"Not taking you back there tonight."

Hermione frowned. "Why not?"

"Because while they weren't stupid enough to try to steal from you at the consulate, they might be stupid enough to try again at Granger's house."

"So where are we going?" Oddly, Hermione didn't feel threatened. She probably should have, considering she had only her uncle's recommendation to judge Callen by, but he'd been nothing but respectful the entire time she'd known him, and so she allowed herself to trust him, at least a little.

"My place. It's unlikely anyone would look for you there."

"Because we barely know each other," Hermione agreed.

"Because I don't bring people back to my place," Callen countered.

Which only made her wonder why he didn't bring people back to his place, but as she'd just reminded herself, she didn't know him well enough to ask. Instead, she settled back into her seat and watched the lights of Los Angeles fly by outside her window.

She must have dozed a little, because she blinked and they were parked in front of a small house on a quiet residential street.

Hermione followed Callen into the house, waited at the door while he made sure no one was waiting inside, and then squinted against the light he flicked on.

The light wasn't even that bright, she saw. It came from a floor lamp in a corner, illuminating a chair and a pile of books and not much else.

"Have a seat," Callen said. "I have beer if you want some more, or water. Or tea."

"Tea," she decided. The American aurors had healed her, so she had no reason to avoid alcohol, but only an idiot would risk too much alcohol around a near-stranger. With a glance toward the kitchen, she crossed to the single chair. It looked comfortably worn and she sank into it, idly scanning the titles of the books stacked haphazardly beside it as Callen moved about in the kitchen.

The titles ranged from political science through history, philosophy, and a biography or two thrown in. She supposed she shouldn't be surprised at the eclectic mix. It fit the man she was coming to know.

"How do you take your tea?" Callen called from the kitchen.

"Two sugars, please. You don't read novels?"

"Sometimes," he said. "But I just finished _One Hundred Years of Solitude_ and _Foucault's Pendulum._ I thought I'd give myself a break."

"Because the _Meditations_ of Marcus Aurelius and Plato's _Republic_ are light reading," Hermione offered in the driest tone she had.

"The _Meditations_ are easy reading, but hard thinking." Callen came into the room with two gigantic mugs. Even in the dim light of the room, Hermione could see steam rising from them.

She hesitated when he offered her one of the mugs.

"It's decaf," he said, and while she had no idea why that mattered, it still prompted her to take the mug from him.

One inhale told her that this man knew his tea. Not that she could pinpoint what it was, exactly, but it had a rich, earthy aroma that could not come from an international brand, and she sipped with pleasure.

Callen sank to the floor opposite her and took a sip from his own mug.

"I take it you just moved in?" Hermione asked, nodding at the mostly empty room. A small box rested on the fireplace mantle, but otherwise the room was bare except for the corner where she sat.

"About a year ago," Callen answered. "Before that, I didn't have a permanent place."

"What made you choose this one?"

"I didn't."

His words made her blink, and she could only quirk an eyebrow at him.

"My boss bought it for me," he said. "I lived here for a few months when I was a kid."

He'd told her how many foster homes he'd been in, but still, "A few ... months? Sorry to say it, but that seems rather short."

"It was the longest I remember staying anywhere," Callen said. Then his expression turned thoughtful. "I remember being happiest here."

Hermione took swallow of her tea, and she could only hope her voice came out steady when she said, "It's a shame that you didn't get to stay longer."

Callen shrugged that off. "Joys of the foster care system."

The too-casual explanation reminded Hermione uncomfortably of Harry's stories of his childhood at Privet Drive, though she privately admitted she'd be hard pressed to decide which of the two men had the harder time of it.

Just as the silence between them stretched too long, Callen looked up at her. "Care to tell me what really happened last night?"

Hermione blinked and gave silent thanks that she hadn't been taking a sip of her tea when he asked the question. Then she forced her shock aside and drew a mental breath. "Exactly what you said this morning - a man broke in looking for my book, you shot him before he could shoot you, and the police came."

"Somebody came," Callen agreed. "But it wasn't the police. The agent in charge called it the FBCVNO. I'm familiar with all the alphabet agencies, and I've never heard of them. So I ask again, what really happened last night?"

She'd been looking forward to learning detailed memory alteration from the Americans, but instead she'd have to relish chewing them out for failing to obliviate him, making her do it herself.

Her wand slid into her hand, and she swallowed once before whispering, " _Obliviate._ "

Callen just raised one eyebrow. "Agent Lang did the same thing. Explain."

Hermione supposed she could be forgiven for her mouth actually dropping open. "How can you possibly remember her name after two _obliviate_ spells?"

"Spells?" Callen frowned. "Now you really need to explain. Or I just call the police - the real police - and ask for a 5150."

"I don't know what that is," Hermione admitted. She was well-versed in British law - magical and Muggle - but her knowledge of American law came from the shows she and Harry occasionally watched on the telly.

"Seventy-two hour hold for psychiatric evaluation."

Hermione could only stare at him. "I'm not crazy."

"Some people might disagree," Callen said, "what with you talking about spells and waving a wand like a stage magician. _What is going on?_ "

His voice cracked the final question, and instinctively, Hermione jerked backward, tea sloshing over the rim of her mug.

She grabbed the serviette he'd brought and wiped up the spilled tea. He let her have the moment, but she knew he wouldn't allow any further delay.


End file.
